


Distraction

by MissNaya



Category: Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Arachnophobia, Bed-Wetting, Body Hair, Coping, I promise no spiders get fucked, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Past Torture, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Scent Kink, Size Kink, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Topping from the Bottom, briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14891304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: When Jason needs a break from the memory of his time in captivity, he goes to Slade.





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> this is a big gay gross fic about hot sweaty yucky men fucking with only the barest hint of a reason to justify it
> 
> happy SladeRobin weekend!

Jason isn’t sure why sex is the thing that takes him out of his head. He was a virgin before the Joker swept him away into his hellish little torture dungeon. He’s not attracted to people the way he’s “supposed” to be, the way people are when their minds work right and they don’t wake up screaming and shrinking away from invisible hands. His one goal, the only thing that he can concentrate on, involves making Batman pay for his mistakes.

But sometimes even his single-minded determination wavers. Sometimes the ghosts of his all-too-recent past surround him and threaten to choke the remaining life out of his scarred and mangled body. And that’s when he finds Slade.

Slade isn’t what Jason would have ever considered his type. Tall, broad, and decidedly male, whereas before his captivity, Jason had been exclusively, if briefly, interested in slender ( _redheaded, asskicking_ ) women. He’s a murderer and an egomaniac and an asshole besides.

But Slade’s the only one who saw him those first few months post-captivity, during the hardest part of his recovery. He’s the one who witnessed all the random panic attacks, the nightmares, the bedwetting and the sobbing and the shame. He’s seen a side of him that he can’t afford to show to Crane or the militia or anyone else.

Plus he’s on the payroll, which makes him pretty agreeable.

So Jason goes to him. By now, they can tell with a glance when he needs it. Slade will nod and silently follow him out, until they find the newest place Jason has gutted and deemed acceptable for a few hours of letting go.

Tonight, it’s one room of a sturdy old cabin in the middle of nowhere. No windows. One door. One beaten mattress in the corner of the room farthest from that door, so Jason can see everything from where he sits. Slade’s lap is as broad as the rest of him, and his cock, already hard under his pants, feels hot against Jason’s ass.

There’s nothing romantic about their kiss. It’s rough and wet and Slade’s stubble scrapes up his chin where they connect. Slade tastes like cheap cigars and cheaper beers, remnants of the small bonfire party he’d dragged him from.

Jason does most of the touching. He grabs Slade by the wrists and shows him where to put his hands: one on his side, the other on his ass. Slade grabs and squeezes and holds him close, but doesn’t move them from there. Meanwhile, Jason lets his own hands roam over wide shoulders and under Slade’s stained wifebeater, feeling out every muscle and scar.

They almost have the same amount of scars, except Jason’s are uglier, crueler. Most of Slade’s come from honorable battle; the vast majority of Jason’s are the result of torture. He has twisting pink burn marks and dotted cigarette burns and patches of misshapen flesh where things had been drilled into or cut to pieces or sewn together wrong. Slade’s bullet holes and knife wounds are refreshingly simple in comparison.

“Take this off,” Jason says, tugging at the hem of Slade’s shirt. Slade does, then his hands go right back to where they were.

A second later, Slade’s on his back with Jason seated on top of him. Jason moves Slade’s other hand to his ass and leans down to kiss at his neck. He smells like musk and trees, like certain plants crushed and rubbed around hastily as makeshift soap out in the middle of the jungle where their training camp is located. Compared to the scent of the basement at Arkham, the smell is heavenly.

Jason pulls off his own shirt and slots their bodies together. Maybe some of that aroma will rub off on him for a bit before it gets smothered under the sweat-thick stench of sex. It’s already rising up around them, with both of them hard and rutting up against each other. In such a small room, there’s no ventilation at all. It’s heady, almost intoxicating. Jason thinks that might be why he likes it so much.

But this is too slow. It’s almost intimate, and not in the way that Jason likes. He pulls back and shoves his pants down, leaving them gathered around his ankles and a pair of heavy combat boots. Nothing but his shirt comes off entirely, just in case he needs to run. Or kick somebody. Or— He doesn’t know. It just feels safer like this. He plants both of those boots on either side of Slade’s head and shimmies forward, then leans back on his hands.

“Go,” he says, a little breathless.

Slade takes him by the hips and pulls him the rest of the way forward in one short jerk. His tongue finds Jason’s asshole a second later, licking all over it before he shoves it in. Jason shivers, a draft cool on his spit-slick hole while Slade tonguefucks him. It takes effort to keep himself up on his hands, but he does it, enjoying the strain in his arms.

Slade’s done this so often before that he knows exactly what Jason likes. Granted, a lot of what Jason likes is eclectic and prone to sudden, unexpected changes, but this has always been something relaxing. Constant. The dull, wet _slrp-slrp-slrp_ of Slade’s tongue writhing in and out of his hole. He remembers the first time they did that, Jason reluctant and Slade way too eager, and Jason ended up nearly coming then and there from the intensity of it. It’s hardly gotten less overwhelming since.

Jason looks down his body, at the twisted scars and the nest of unkempt black hair trailing from his navel to his ballsack. Slade, for as manly and hetero as he seems everywhere else, doesn’t seem to mind the way his nose nudges under Jason’s balls while he works. He certainly doesn’t mind the overwhelming reek of two men who haven’t had access to a civilized shower in weeks. Then again, he supposes that’s what army life does to you.

He watches as a bead of precum slowly fills out at the tip of his cock, and then, heavy enough, drips down the underside out of sight. Quickly, he fists his shaft, spreading that small amount of moisture around with a twisting motion. He pulls back and lifts his hips, dislodging Slade’s tongue with a wet suction sound.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, I need it now.”

Slade shimmies out from under him and shoves his pants down. His cock, standing out from a tangle of thick white hair, is much bigger than Jason’s. So big that, the first few times they did this, he couldn’t fit it all inside. Slade had to finger him to completion then. Jason never helped him get off afterwards.

A thick vein spans the length of one side, from the base all the way to the tip. Slade’s foreskin is intact and covers most of his cockhead. He pulls it back briefly when he strokes himself, and Jason watches, transfixed, as that pink tip appears and disappears over and over again. Slade comes closer, kneeling beside Jason’s head, and Jason leans up to take it into his mouth.

He swirls his tongue around the head first. He likes feeling all the folds of his foreskin, dipping his tongue underneath it to taste sweat and salt. It always makes Slade groan. Then he sucks some more, the first few inches disappearing past his lips. Slade is almost over-warm on his tongue, with a taste so thick that it makes him salivate. He pulls back and spits a thick glob onto Slade’s shaft, then uses his hand to spread it around.

Rarely, they find something to use as lube. It’s non-essential in their training camp, and Jason doesn’t request this very often, so he doesn’t go out of his way to find it when they run out. Tonight is one of their “out” nights, which makes this job even more crucial. He sucks and licks as much as he can — around half of Slade’s cock, all told — and spits onto what he can’t reach, until Slade is a dripping mess.

Once, he pushes himself too far, and Slade’s cockhead enters his throat. He doesn’t gag. Hasn’t since his hunger strike at Arkham, when the Joker ended up force-feeding him with a tube and a funnel. The blunt tip strikes his tonsils exactly the right way to remind him of that time, so he pulls back entirely before the full extent of a flashback can take hold.

“Okay,” he says. His throat throbs in pain. “Do it.”

Slade moves back between his legs and pulls Jason by the thighs until their lower bodies are flush. His back strikes the mattress with a dull thud; he can feel the outline of a few springs against his spine. For a second, Jason just stares up at the ceiling above him, at the crisscrossing mess of spiderwebs and the things that writhe inside them. Hundreds of impassive spiders cling to the ceiling the way they do everywhere in the jungle. They, he thinks, are much more polite than the rats and roaches of Arkham that would come up to inspect him where he lay bound with barbed wire on the floor. They keep the worst of the creepy-crawlies out.

He figures there might be a metaphor there, but Slade interrupts his train of thought by pressing the head of his cock against his hole. “Ready?” he asks.

Jason closes his eyes and blocks everything else out. “Told you not to ask.”

“Sorry, boss.”

Slade isn’t sorry. But he is obedient, to a point. He forces himself into Jason’s ill-prepared hole, and Jason uses all his mental fortitude to focus on opening himself up for him. The worst part is always the beginning, getting past the hurdle of the ridge of his cockhead. Once that pops in, the rest is much easier.

Jason keeps still, hips lifted up and legs in the air, bent and spread. It’s not the amount of exposure he usually likes, but right now, it feels right. Slade begins to move before he’s all the way inside, paving the way for the rest of his cock in short thrusts. He holds Jason up with sturdy hands on the outsides of his thighs, with his big fingers and scratchy calluses.

When Jason was a virgin, he figured sex was mainly about your mouth and what’s in your pants (or shirt, for girls). Something contained to those areas, the way sex is contained to bedrooms and porn sites. He’s since learned that, like the way sexuality spills out everywhere from advertising to media to barroom conversations, sex itself involves so much more than just what people call sex organs.

The epicenter of it all is, of course, where Slade pounds in and out of him, but it doesn’t stop there. It clenches up his belly, it makes his legs shake and his feet tingle, it sends heat and pain and pleasure up his spine. His breath comes faster and he sweats harder and his head swims, face flushed, nipples hard, heart beating fast, a full body experience that takes his whole mind to comprehend. And that, he thinks, is why it’s perfect for him.

At long last, when Slade finally slips all the way in, Jason holds up a hand to signal him to stop. He does, and Jason takes the time to really _feel_ the full length of Slade inside of him. There’s not enough lubricant, and it burns, but it’s a good burn. The kind that promises pleasure ahead if he plays his cards right. He looks down at himself and tries to imagine where Slade’s cock is, how far up toward his navel he’s gotten. What he looks like from the inside all stretched out.

Maybe that’s the Joker talking, when he thinks weird, morbid things like that. When he thinks about slipping a hand into his stomach cavity and jerking Slade off through his own intestines. But he won’t let this part of his life be ruined by that maniac, not when Joker never touched him like this. He won’t let him take something else away. So he concludes that he must just be fucked up all on his own, at least when it comes to this.

If he’s fucked up, Slade’s fucked up to match, because he presses down on Jason’s lower stomach like he’s thinking the same thing. Jason nods minutely, and Slade starts to move again, his warm palm flat over that area. Jason leaks a few more beads of precum, and when his cock bounces with the motion of Slade’s thrusts, they stick to the back of Slade’s hand and stretch up in a translucent strand connecting hand to cock.

A few times, Slade pauses to spit down on his cock. Often, he doesn’t quite hit the mark, and big, cool globs of it drip up the crack of Jason’s ass and toward his spine. Before long, it feels like he’s entirely drenched down there, be it from spit or sweat or precum, but the slide becomes much less painful.

A pressure builds every time Slade’s slick cockhead rubs against his prostate, that strange over-full sensation that makes him feel like he has to piss. He hated it at first. Always felt like he _would_ piss, worried about it even when Slade rubbed circles into his back and jerked him off and told him to just let it happen. Now, he doubts he’d care even if he did wet himself. Doubts Slade would, either. There are more important things to worry about, and they’ve seen each other in disgusting enough states that something like that would hardly register on their radar.

One of Jason’s arms flops to the side, hand blindly searching for something to grip onto. It lands with a _thunk_ on the floorboards at first, so he corrects himself and grabs the edge of the old mattress. His other hand tangles itself in Slade’s pants leg, right on top of his knee.

“Faster,” he chokes out, like Slade’s cock has somehow made it all the way through him and back into his throat. He wraps the fabric of Slade’s pants around his hand, using it as an anchor he can tug on to keep himself grounded for just a little while longer. “ _Faster._ ”

Slade obliges, and the _slap-slap-slap_ of their union gets even louder. Jason glances toward the door even though he knows nobody is there, then lets his head roll to the other side. The pressure grows, and he feels overheated, like a dense cloud of humidity has decided to settle down around just the pair of them. Sex hangs so thick in the air that he can taste it.

“Want me to?” Slade asks. Jason’s eyes are closed, but he feels Slade’s fingers brush over his cock. He nods, and Slade takes it in his hand.

It results in an ever so slight change in angle, and Slade pounds into him harder, somehow even deeper. Or maybe that’s just Jason’s imagination. He feels like all his insides have been displaced by Slade’s huge cock, like that’s all he has room for, that’s all he wants there. It almost feels like even his heartbeat has been replaced by the frantic slamming of Slade’s cock inside his body, like his blood is pumping to that rhythm.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, head rolling back to the other side. Eyes open. Still no one at the door. Good. He looks back up at Slade.

It’s hard to see him too well in the low light, but he catches the way Slade’s brow is furrowed. He’s not the most expressive person during sex — or, if he is, it’s with people less strict than Jason. Not until he’s close, at which point he makes little grunts and growls that remind Jason he’s human, too.

“Gonna come,” Jason tells him a few thrusts later. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

By now, Slade knows well enough that that means “don’t stop even after I come.” Jason lets himself tense and relax, tense and relax, and then finally, with Slade’s hand jerking up and down his precum-slippery cock, he comes. The sound he makes isn’t a pretty one, he doesn’t think, just something deep and vaguely uncomfortable. An “oof” more than an “ahh.”

Slade keeps jerking him until he goes soft, and keeps fucking him through the twitching and spasming of Jason’s internal muscles. If he makes noises of his own, Jason doesn’t hear them through his own ragged breathing and the ringing in his ears. But he does feel, a minute or two later, Slade’s cock pulse inside of him. Slade stops moving for the worst of it, allowing Jason to really feel the way his cock moves almost like an independent thing. He doesn’t feel wetter until Slade moves and milks himself of the last of his cum using Jason’s worn-out asshole.

“Out,” Jason tells him as soon as the aftershocks have settled. Slade pulls out, and Jason winces; the second-hardest part is feeling the cock come out of him once they’re done, after the pleasure has receded and it’s just a necessary discomfort with no real benefit.

Slade gently lowers Jason’s bottom half down onto the mattress, far too gentle for a deadly assassin like him. Jason lets him probe around with his thumb for a moment, tugging his hole open to let a bit of cum dribble out. Then he rubs the pad of his thumb in little circles over the abused ring of muscle, and Jason sighs.

“Feel better?” Slade asks.

Jason wrinkles his nose. He never answers positively, because he doesn’t like the way it’s phrased, like there’s a “better” to be obtained in his shitshow of a life. Slade knows that. But the fact that he’s otherwise too tired to scold him for it is a testament to how well it worked.

Slade knows that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr!](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
